


if it was called a thistle

by prettydizzeed



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydizzeed/pseuds/prettydizzeed
Summary: Miguel looks up from the stack of papers Johnny had dumped on his lap. “Uh, Sensei?” he asks, and Johnny grunts around the rim of his beer bottle in acknowledgment. “Slight problem—Cobra Kai is still under copyright.”Johnny frowns. “Copy what?”
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Miguel Diaz & Johnny Lawrence, Robby Keene & Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 89
Kudos: 245





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a tumblr post about how daniel and johnny wouldn't have had so much conflict if johnny had named the dojo literally anything else: https://crocodoom.tumblr.com/post/630980680312111104/ever-think-about-how-many-problems-could-have-been 
> 
> the title is from an Anne of Green Gables quote: “I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I’ve never been able to believe it. I don’t believe a rose would be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage."

Miguel looks up from the stack of papers Johnny had dumped on his lap.  _ Are you sure you want me to do these, Sensei?  _ he’d asked,  _ They look really official,  _ and Johnny had scoffed and said,  _ Yeah, an official pain in my ass. _

“Uh, Sensei?” he asks now, and Johnny grunts around the rim of his beer bottle in acknowledgment. “Slight problem—Cobra Kai is still under copyright.”

“Copy what?” he asks, and Miguel blinks.

“It, uh, means you can’t use the name. Someone else already owns it.”

“What?” Johnny asks, swinging his feet off the desk to sit upright in his chair. “That’s bullshit. You can’t own words, that’s not a thing.”

Miguel hesitates, like he isn’t sure if Johnny is joking or not. “I’m sorry, Sensei, but—yeah, it is. You could get sued if you call the dojo that.”

“Fine,” Johnny groans, rolling his eyes, and starts brainstorming ideas on the back of a napkin from some fast food place while Miguel figures out which bills are most likely to cause them bodily harm if left unpaid. Once that’s done, he hands the scribbled-on napkin and pen off to Miguel, too.

“I don’t know if you’re allowed to have a curse word in the title,” Miguel says.

“What? Ass isn’t a curse word.”

“Tell that to the kids’ parents,” Miguel mutters, but Johnny doesn’t call him out on it, even though he’s frustrated and pissed that he can’t just name his fucking dojo the name he fucking wanted to originally and move on. Plus, like, that whole unwanted truth bomb totally reduced the extent to which this venture will get back at LaRusso for insulting Cobra Kai. Being glad it was gone.

There was a time when Johnny was glad it was gone, too, probably up until he was at least a solid decade removed from all that shit. And he still wakes up gasping some nights, only gets back to sleep after reminding himself that it’s not still out there in the world, so maybe this is for the best, but he’s sure as fuck not gonna let LaRusso know about any of that.

“Hey,” Miguel says, “wait, what about—” Johnny looks at the line he’s tapping on the paper, surrounded by scratched-out phrases, mostly combinations of snake names and fighting-related verbs. 

“No way,” Johnny says. “I am not naming my dojo after a fucking pun.” 

*

Daniel LaRusso just barely catches a red light on the way to work, but it’s no big deal; he’d slept great, he’d made breakfast for his kids and even exchanged three full sentences with Anthony without a screen between them, and he has a feeling today will be a successful sales day, maybe even enough to put them above quota for the month.

Something catches his attention out the corner of his eye, a difference in his surroundings from the previous three to four times a week he gets stuck here waiting for the light to change. Someone finally started renting the empty store in that strip mall, it looks like. 

BADASP KARATE, the sign proclaims in a green that manages to be both deep and bright. There’s a snake halfway between the first word, silver and mid-slither with a green pattern on its back.

_ Huh, _ he thinks. A little tacky, maybe, but it’s kind of nice to know there are still people out here who want to throw their whole lives into this sport, that it’s not just him and his choreographed movements on an uncomfortably stale-sounding commercial. 

Someone out there loves karate enough to teach it, even if that means they’ve got to do it at a shitty strip mall in Reseda. Someone—someone might be having their first lesson today, it occurs to him all of a sudden, and he can’t hold back his smile. 

*

“You know asps aren’t green, right?” Miguel asks, looking up at the sign. Johnny still thinks the graphic designer had charged way too much, but he can’t really call it a ripoff when it looks so good. Plus, like Miguel kept reminding him, it cost less than a lawsuit.

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Shut up, it looks badass.”

Miguel can’t help but grin in agreement. He nods. “I guess the Slytherin association could help, too. Like brand recognition.”

“The slither-what?” Johnny asks, and Miguel rolls his eyes. 

“Forget it.”

Johnny shrugs. “Okay, now let’s go post some fucking signs.”

The kid’s idea about the advertising thing was good, not that Johnny’s about to tell him that. Instead, he claps him on the shoulder when they’re done and says, “Okay, now go clean the toilet,” and Miguel might’ve rolled his eyes before saying  _ Yes, Sensei,  _ but it looked almost affectionate, so Johnny doesn’t call him out on it. 

_ Fuck,  _ he thinks. Now he’s gotta be careful not to, like, let this kid down.

Fuck if he knows how to do that.

*

Daniel’s just—curious, is all. He’s been distracted all week, enough that Amanda has called him out on it a couple times, but she also said his exuberance was doing wonders for the customers, so he figures it probably evens out. He takes a left into the shopping center on the way home, pulling into the parking space next to a Firebird he would recognize anywhere, and feels his breath catch. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t walk any faster towards the dojo than he would’ve if it was any other car. 

A bell over the door rings, and even though Daniel should be more prepared this time than he was a couple of months ago, his heart rate still picks up faster than he could ever regulate away when he sees Johnny Lawrence.


	2. Johnny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for Johnny-typical misogynistic language 
> 
> also, as a heads up, daniel doesn’t cheat on amanda in this fic. no spoilers on the specifics :)

When that fucking annoying bell starts making noise, Johnny is hoping it’ll be a customer and dreading that it might be the landlord. Or that goddamn health inspector.

Instead, it’s LaRusso. Johnny almost drops the beer bottle he’s holding. “Okay, uh, take five,” he tells Miguel, who looks up in surprise but nods and abandons his cleaning rag to go get some water. Johnny sets his beer down in a corner of the desk that he’s pretty sure can’t be seen through the window and walks out the office.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and it doesn’t even come out aggressive. Damn.

“Nice place you got here,” LaRusso says politely but unhelpfully, surveying the dojo, taking in the green and silver mats, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the left wall, the black lettering on the other. He does a visible double-take at the words: FIGHT WITH HONOR. BE BADASP. 

(Apparently Cobra Kai’s motto had been copyrighted, too. Johnny had let Miguel off the chores hook early that night for saving his ass from another potential lawsuit, not that he was about to tell him that.)

“You’re really turning over a new leaf here, huh?” LaRusso asks, and Johnny rolls his eyes.

“How would you know what leaves I’ve been turning over for the past thirty years?”

To his surprise, LaRusso flushes. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Johnny grunts, not expecting a mature response and not knowing how to reply now that he’s gotten it. Ribbing LaRusso has never gone like this before. He decides to take—not mercy, okay, but pity on the guy, standing there with his hands in his obscenely expensive suit pockets but his feet spaced properly apart for a fighting stance, like his body is torn between being familiar here or rejecting everything he used to know.

Johnny maybe knows the feeling.

So instead of asking LaRusso what the hell he’s doing here, he says, “I threw away the gi, didn’t I?” and LaRusso blinks, surprised.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “you did.”

“So what’re you doing here?” Johnny asks, conversational rather than accusatory. LaRusso, god save him, blushes again, and Johnny can’t help but grin. It’s so easy to get a rise out of this guy, and though this isn’t the way that usually happens, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t prefer it. 

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he says, “I just—I’ve been thinking about karate more since running into you at the dealership, and I saw the sign, and…” He shrugs.

“You miss it?” Johnny asks. He’s not really sure why he does, except it’d be nice to know that someone else gives a shit. That caring about karate more than just about anything else in the world, running a dojo, wasn’t just the bizarre pipe dream of some loser who peaked—and hit rock bottom—in high school. 

Not that he needs LaRusso’s validation.

“Yeah,” he admits, tilting his head in a way that looks downright wistful. Ugh. “I haven’t done karate in years. Not since my daughter was little.”

His daughter. The one whose friend had wrecked Johnny’s car. He wonders suddenly if LaRusso knows, if that’s why he paid to fix it, but he finds that he doesn’t want to risk ruining LaRusso’s good mood to find out. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, it’s a good thing you taught her. My student says the kids at their high school are dicks.”

LaRusso snorts. “Yeah, I have some experience with that.”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to be embarrassed. “Listen, I—I know Bobby and I told you this spring of senior year, but I’m sorry about all that bullshit. It was fucked up, what we did to you.” He grimaces. _Fight with honor,_ he reminds himself. “What I did.”

LaRusso blinks, obviously surprised, which is both offensive and satisfying. “Oh. Thank you.” 

Johnny shrugs, trying not to study him too closely. “Yeah, well. I’m not some pussy who’s too afraid to own up to my own actions.”

“Right,” LaRusso says, rolling his eyes, but he looks more amused than annoyed. He glances around the room again. He isn’t looking at Johnny when he says, “Mr. Miyagi used to say there are no bad students, only bad teachers. I’ve thought about that a lot since then.”

Johnny, almost against his will, bristles; who does he think he is, waltzing into Johnny’s dojo and calling his sensei a bad teacher? But before he can decide whether to defend Kreese’s—well, not honor, okay, but name—Miguel walks into the main room. 

“Oh, hey, Sensei,” he says. “It’s been five.”

Johnny nods, then turns to tell LaRusso _nice chatting, now do us both a favor and get lost,_ but closes his mouth when he sees the guy’s face. He’s looking at Miguel, his bare feet and sweat and scabbed knuckles, with a palpable envy. No shit, he misses it. 

Johnny wonders if he looks that way every time he puts on a fake gi for his stupid commercials. And if so, how anyone films without caving to that face, saying _Goddamnit, LaRusso, just get your ass on a mat. Come back when you can keep from longing all over the place._

Goddamnit, LaRusso. “You wanna spar?” Johnny asks. “That is, if you have any clothes you’re not afraid to sweat in.” 

“Not with me,” he says, “But—I could go change and come back?”

Johnny shrugs, trying not to show how excited he is by the idea now that it’s out there. “Sure. I think it’d be good for the kid to see somebody else fight.”

“I’m a little rusty,” LaRusso admits, and Johnny can’t tell if the humility is an affectation or not.

“Even better,” he says, smiling with all his teeth, and LaRusso pauses, looking at him, then swallows whatever he was going to say and goes to his car. 

Johnny grins the whole time he’s gone, even when Miguel’s punches are weak and his form is shit. This is going to be fun.

LaRusso shows back up in some sort of workout outfit that probably costs more than a month of Johnny’s rent. “Is he seriously in athleisure wear?” Miguel asks, and Johnny doesn’t have time to ask what the hell that means before the fucking bell is ringing again. Johnny honestly might have to do a flying kick and knock it out of commission one of these days. Or break out the step stool from the storage room.

“Okay,” LaRusso says, bouncing on his heels like the hyperactive kid he used to be, “you ready to do this?”

“Hell yes,” Johnny says, and LaRusso toes off his shiny, name-brand sneakers and steps onto the mat to face him. They bow, and get into starting positions.

 _“Shobu hajime!”_ Miguel calls, and they’re off. 

It’s almost scary how exhilarating it is. Aside from those twerps in the parking lot, Johnny hasn’t fought anyone very recently, and that was nowhere near the same; they’d had no form, as sloppy as they were irritating, whereas LaRusso, while admittedly a little too slow to respond or too jerky at times, slips back into the give and take of the match like he’s coming home. It brings his whole body back to life, the stiff and stuffy car salesman posture hanging over his skeleton like a shadow replaced by all that Jersey fire, fists and feet moving fluidly in response to Johnny’s every gesture.

Johnny lands a hit on his chest and motions for them to pause. “You see how that turn left him open?” he asks Miguel, indicating as LaRusso recreates the movement without being asked. 

“Yes, Sensei,” Miguel says, wide-eyed from watching them. 

Johnny nods. “Good. Next time I get a point, I want you to talk me through how it happened.”

“What makes you so sure you’re gonna be the one to score the next point?” LaRusso asks, and Johnny raises his eyebrows at him.

“Because I kick ass, and you spend half your day behind a desk.”

LaRusso shakes his head, mock-exasperated, but there’s something heavy in his eyes that acknowledges the truth of it. 

It takes less than two minutes for him to slip up and not block Johnny’s kick, and Johnny gets Miguel on the mat, walks him through the motions that would’ve kept him from scoring the point.

“Alright, kid, I think your Ya-Ya is waiting on you,” Johnny says, clapping Miguel on the shoulder about ten minutes later. LaRusso had managed to land two kicks, but Johnny’s successful punches far outnumbered his. Johnny watches LaRusso towel off with some sort of microfiber bullshit, blood still rushing fast and thrilled through his veins. 

“Good match,” he says, and LaRusso looks up, startled, expression carrying the weight of three decades. 

“Thanks,” he says, and then, shaking his head at himself, “but you kicked my ass.”

“Hell yeah I did.”

LaRusso laughs and looks at him, tilting his head to the side. “You wanna grab a drink?”

“You paying?” Johnny asks, and LaRusso rolls his eyes but nods.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Alright,” Johnny says, and LaRusso gets his panties in a wad at the thought of getting sweat on the seats of his precious Audi, so he doesn’t get to say shit about Johnny’s driving as the Firebird carries them to a nearby bar. 

It’s around dinnertime anyway, and they both worked up an appetite from the sparring, so maybe they end up eating more than they drink, and then maybe LaRusso insists on sitting around _talking_ while Johnny nurses a water even though he could totally drive buzzed, it’s no big deal, man, and then LaRusso asks if he wants to go again, and, well, god knows Johnny’s never been one to back down from a challenge or an invitation, and this is both.

They’re tied until Johnny knocks LaRusso to the ground, the little shit kicking his leg out to catch Johnny’s ankle on the way down so Johnny ends up sprawled on top of him. And then they just… Stay there for a second, breathing hard. LaRusso’s eyes flick to Johnny’s mouth and back up. Johnny doesn’t even try to flip him. Yet.

Johnny clears his throat. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, LaRusso, but I’m not about to cheat on your wife with you, if that’s it.”

LaRusso flushes red enough that Johnny can tell he hit a real nerve, not just some high school “no homo” instinct shit. Huh. That’s the last thing he wants to think about, including the way it makes his internal organs pause their probably very vital functions all at once, so he decides this is the opportune moment to wedge his knee on the other side of LaRusso’s scrawny calf and flip their positions, at which point he immediately leaps to his feet. 

“Well,” he says, “that was fun, memory lane and all, but I promised Miguel I’d show him some moves at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow, so. Time to hit the hay rather than the mat.”

LaRusso chuckles half-heartedly and nods, then appears to realize he’s still on his back and scrambles to his feet. “Have you ever thought about doing open sparring sessions?” he asks, like someone who is standing around making small talk in Johnny’s dojo rather than walking his expensively-clothed ass to his expensive car and going the fuck home. “Like, for adults?”

“The only bodily fluids I want to clean off of my mats are sweat and blood,” Johnny says, “so that’d be a no. It’s bad enough with the fucking teenagers.” 

Teenager, singular, right now, but LaRusso doesn’t need to know that. LaRusso snorts. “What, you think a bunch of middle-aged customers are gonna get all hot and bothered in your dojo?” he asks, and Johnny smirks.

“One already has, and you aren’t even paying.”

LaRusso blushes even as he rolls his eyes, waving a hand at him. Johnny’s sure he didn’t blush this much in high school. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Johnny says, shaking his head, LaRusso’s laugh echoing in his ears long after he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m on tumblr @campgender if you want to chat or send prompts!


	3. Daniel

Daniel is on edge.

Story of his goddamn life, right, but seriously: his kid is possibly at risk of being impregnated by a guy who may or may not have been beaten up by the guy who was not  _ not _ flirting with Daniel a month ago, so his nerves are completely justified. 

It doesn’t help his anxiety when he rounds the corner and sees Johnny. Speak of the devil, et cetera, but that costume would’ve been too on the nose back then, and now, Johnny isn’t wearing one.

(The flannel that he is wearing looks soft, which is entirely irrelevant to Daniel preventing his daughter from becoming a cautionary after-school special.)

“What’re you doing here?” Daniel asks. If Johnny notices the suspicion in his voice, he doesn’t show it. And yeah, Daniel knows Amanda told him to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but that was before his student showed up looking like Daniel’s second-worst nightmare, so sue him if he’s got his qualms.

“Trying to promote the dojo,” Johnny says, holding up a stack of light green papers. He’s got his thumb through the hole of a roll of tape, which Daniel finds disturbingly endearing. “Look at this,” he says, grinning, and points at a URL on the bottom of the page. “Miguel, that’s my student, he made this Internet site for the dojo. w-w-w period badasp dash karate period c-o-m.” 

His face looks gentler, somehow, smiling at the flyer and watching expectantly for Daniel’s reaction, and against his will, Daniel feels himself soften.

Johnny squints at him. “You alright, LaRusso? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“More like a skeleton,” Daniel says, because his mouth has always worked faster than his brain. Johnny looks confused, at first, but then it couldn’t have more obviously hit him all at once; his eyebrows raise, his eyes widen, and his lips part slightly. Daniel feels the overwhelming urge to look away.

“Ah, shit, man,” Johnny says, “look, I wasn’t thinking about that, and even if I was, I didn’t think you’d be here. You should’ve seen the kid’s costume, though, it looked like a bedsheet with arm holes. I wasn’t gonna let him get his ass kicked by a bunch of dickbags again.”

“Again?” Daniel asks, curious despite himself.

“Yeah, when I met the kid, he was getting whaled on by like five guys, so I kicked their asses, and here we are.” 

“Oh,” Daniel says, and Johnny shrugs.  _ I assumed your student would be like you,  _ he doesn’t say,  _ One of the five doing the beating up. _

Instead, if Johnny is to be believed—which is debatable and maybe goes against a lot of Daniel’s instincts, but also, why would he reveal that his student was uncool if it wasn’t true?—Miguel has a lot more in common with Daniel, which makes Kyler… 

“Oh, shit,” Daniel says, looking over Johnny’s shoulder and seeing Kyler and Sam running hand-in-hand through the hall. “Sorry, Johnny, I gotta go try to stop some punk from making my daughter into a teen mom,” he says with a grimace, but he’s barely taken a step before Johnny’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“Want some backup?” Johnny, when Daniel turns around to look at him, has his hands in his jean pockets, eyebrows raised. 

_ Never thought you’d be volunteering to play my sidekick,  _ Daniel thinks, but what he says is, “Yeah, sure. Come on.”

And just like that, he’s once again racing through the high school halls with Johnny Lawrence at his heels. 

“—it’s so hard,” his daughter is saying through the cracked classroom door, and Daniel LaRusso sees red more vibrantly than ever before in his long life with a short temper. He’s about to burst through there and—and he doesn’t even know what, kick this kid’s  _ ass,  _ let his body call the shots for him—when Johnny fucking Lawrence cuts off his momentum with a hand to his elbow.

“Just a friendly reminder,” Johnny says under his breath, close to Daniel’s ear, “that when I kicked this kid’s ass, I got arrested. Seems like the kind of publicity your booming business doesn’t really need.”

And, goddamnit, he’s right. Tom Cole would have a field day. Daniel takes a deep breath, which apparently reassures Johnny enough for him to let go of Daniel’s arm, and then they walk rather than burst through the door. 

“Hey, kids,” Johnny says before Daniel gets the chance to start yelling, “rooms other than the gym are off-limits during the dance, so if you could just get back to the rest of your sweaty, awkward peers, we’ll forget this ever happened.”

_ No, I won’t,  _ Daniel thinks, affronted, but Sam looks vaguely chagrined rather than livid, and she isn’t yelling at him about how he isn’t very ghostlike at the moment, so—that’s something. 

“Oh, sorry, Mr. LaRusso,” Kyler says, glancing at Johnny nervously every couple of seconds, “I just wanted to go somewhere a little quieter to give Sam this bracelet.” He holds it up. “It, uh, it was my grandmother’s.”

Sam immediately melts, looking at it, and Daniel feels his anger fizzle out as viscerally as if he had been dunked in water. “Oh. That’s, uh, that’s very sweet of you, Kyler.” 

Kyler nods awkwardly, and Johnny snorts. “Yeah, and I'm sure the other ten you bought at Target were priceless family heirlooms, too. Come on, LaRusso, it’s like you’ve never lied to get in a girl’s pants.”

“I haven’t,” Daniel snaps, and then the rest of his sentence sinks in. “Wait, let me see that.” He snatches the bracelet from Kyler’s frozen hand and takes a photo, plugging it into reverse Google image search. Sure enough— “A fake antique could be yours for the low, low price of $7.99,” he says in his best car salesman voice, turning the phone around to show Sam. 

Johnny cranes his neck to see, too, and whistles. “Damn, LaRusso, what are you, some kind of Internet wizard?” 

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Any nine-year-old could’ve done that, Johnny.”

“Still,” Johnny says, elbowing him. “Nice work.”

Daniel feels himself flush, something that only seems to happen around this guy, and wonders when he started giving a shit about Johnny Lawrence’s approval.  _ Hmm, maybe sometime around the end of the All-Valley Tournament?  _ an obnoxious voice in his head says, and he promptly shuts himself up by looking over to see how Sam’s doing. She holds his phone out to him, face dangerously neutral, and as soon as he takes it, she winds her arm back and slaps Kyler across the face. 

Johnny laughs long and hard, and it makes Daniel’s throat tighten in a way that’s concerningly not uncomfortable.

“Now might be a good time for you to go home,” Daniel tells Kyler, who nods, wide-eyed, and darts out of the room. He hugs his daughter close. “Nice move.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, still clearly upset at the situation, and tilts her head in Johnny’s direction. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Johnny Lawrence. He’s, uh, he’s chaperoning, too.”

Johnny raises his eyebrows, but instead of ribbing Daniel about it, he addresses Sam. “How’s that blonde chick’s car holding up?” he asks, and Sam pales. 

“Wait, what?” Daniel asks, and Johnny shakes his head.

“She’ll tell you later. C’mon, let your kid go have some fun without her lame dad hanging around.” 

Sam takes the out that’s been offered to her, kissing Daniel on the cheek and leaving as he says, “Hey, I am  _ not  _ lame—” and Johnny laughs.

“LaRusso, all parents are lame, don’t worry about it. You’re a better dad than me, anyway.” 

“You have a kid?”

Johnny looks at the door. “Yeah. Name’s Robby. Let’s just say I’m not gonna be on the receiving end of any #1 Dad mugs anytime soon. Or ever.”

“Hey, you’re probably the only reason Sam is speaking to me right now,” Daniel reminds him. “I was about to go in there guns blazing and probably drive her even further into that asshole’s arms. I’m sure you and Robby will work things out.”

Johnny shakes his head, looking sadder than Daniel’s ever seen him. “Anyone ever tell you your relentless optimism is annoying as hell?”

Daniel laughs. “All the time.” 

“Some of us are never gonna have your nauseatingly perfect nuclear family situation, LaRusso. It’s fine.” 

Daniel swallows. He’s never told anyone other than his mom this, even though Amanda has said it’s fine, she trusts his judgment, but—well, Johnny’s measuring himself by this bar, and he obviously feels like shit about it, so in the end, it’s the easiest decision in the world to let himself run his big mouth like he wants to and say, “Yeah, well, I don’t have a nauseatingly perfect nuclear family situation, either, Johnny. Emphasis on the nuclear family part.”

Johnny just kind of blinks at him, and Daniel sighs. “Amanda and I got divorced about five years ago. It took a while to adjust, and to be able to be normal around each other, but eventually we decided, you know, we could still co-parent without being married. And we’ve got that whole family owned and operated thing going, so it was better for the business for her to just keep my last name and carry on, you know? What the shareholders don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Johnny demands, and Daniel shakes his head. 

“No, I’m totally serious. She’s still my partner, she’s just not… my  _ partner. _ ” 

“Huh,” is all Johnny says, looking at him for a long, charged moment before adding abruptly, “Well, we should probably get back to chaperoning, huh?” with a smirk.

“Right,” Daniel says, following him back to the gym, trying not to wonder if Johnny’s gaze had lingered on his lips.


	4. Johnny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for discussion of the fucked up events of kk3 and resulting trauma

Okay, so maybe he’d wanted to lay one on LaRusso’s stupid mouth in a random West Valley High School classroom. Whatever. The guy had clearly had a shit day, so any strike first mentality was overridden by the fact that that wouldn’t be fighting clean. Gotta walk the walk and not just talk the talk for his kids, and all that. 

Yeah, it’s kids, plural, now, since Miguel went viral on the YouTube kicking those douchebags’ teeth in and every loser in the valley decided Badasp Karate was their ticket to keeping their lunch money and other various and sundry worldly possessions intact for the next four years. 

Which, hey, as Miguel pointed out when Johnny was griping about it to begin with, there are worse problems to have. Business is booming, even if the bills are getting paid by the parents of a bunch of losers. (He means that affectionately more often than not, nowadays, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kick the ass of anyone who called him on it.)

When he sees the ad for the All-Valley Under 18 Tournament, he knows most of these nerds don’t stand a chance, but it’ll be good life experience or whatever. Get the dojo’s name out there, too. And a couple of kids, like Miguel, actually have a decent shot at the semifinals, at the least.

The registrar at the All-Valley Karate Board, however, has other ideas. 

“John Lawrence?” she repeats, and he spells his name for her. She clicks her tongue. “Are you the same John Lawrence who was All-Valley champ in…” There’s a rustling of paper. “‘83? Fighting for Cobra Kai?”

“And ‘82,” he says, then feels like a bit of an idiot puffing his chest out where no one can see him. 

“Right…” she says, sounding unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but I will not be able to register your dojo. The All-Valley bylaws state that any person or persons currently or formerly affiliated with the Cobra Kai dojo are barred from entry into any All-Valley karate competitions. I’m sorry, Mr. Lawrence.”

“What?” he demands, but she’s already hung up. “No, you can’t ban me, I ban you!” He slams the phone into the receiver and looks up to see Miguel standing in the doorway, raising his eyebrows. 

So—he ends up in the suit he’s worn exactly twice since his mom’s funeral, carrying an empty briefcase and trying not to tug at his collar as a bunch of karate dorks debate mat colors. Yeah, he’s a karate  _ enthusiast  _ too, but come on, none of these losers (and this time, he means it with absolutely zero goodwill in his heart) look like they’ve thrown a punch in the last decade; they just like watching kids fight and making money off of tourism and nostalgia.

“There he is!” says one of the guys with disturbingly strong opinions on mat colors, “Thought you weren’t gonna make it,” and Johnny cranes his neck to see Daniel LaRusso walk in. Speaking of money and nostalgia. He’s clearly just gotten off of work, still in that suit that fits him so well he had to have gotten it tailored. Fuckin’ bespoke asshole. Johnny refuses to adjust the sleeves of his blazer that ride up a little too far on his arms.

“Aw, come on, I never miss the annual meeting,” Daniel says, sitting down, “And aren’t I glad I didn’t start now.” He’s looking at Johnny, and he—the little shit fucking  _ winks, _ smooth as anything. Johnny wishes Miguel had taught him what to do to keep his jaw from dropping. 

He makes a fist to himself anyway. Old habits die hard, and whatever.

“So what’s going on?” Daniel asks. 

Johnny is dreading another ten minutes of comparing color swatches, but the chick with the bob comes to his rescue by saying, “Mr. Lawrence says his dojo has been barred from competing because he was previously a student in…” She glances at her notes. “Cobra Kay?”

“Cobra Kai,” Daniel and Johnny say at the same time, and Daniel gives him a look that’s hard to decipher, somewhere between a smile and a smirk. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny says. “I was a student at Cobra Kai in the 80’s, but I quit after the events of the 1984 All-Valley Tournament. My current dojo isn’t affiliated with them at all, so…” He makes a fist like Miguel taught him again. Takes a deep breath. “I’m confused as to why my students aren’t allowed to compete.”

“I’m confused by that, as well,” says the bald dude, and there’s some chatter for a moment as all the board members express to one another that they haven’t heard of this dojo and had no idea that this rule was on the books.

Well, all except one. Daniel and Johnny lock eyes, and Johnny can tell exactly what they’re both thinking:  _ A bunch of spectators. They didn’t live and breathe it, they weren’t there. _

“Perhaps I can shed some light on the situation,” Daniel says, pretentious prick that he is. “The ban on Cobra Kai members was instituted after the events of the 1985 All-Valley Tournament, for the illegal and unsportsmanlike behavior of Terry Silver, John Kreese, and Mike Barnes. But Jo—uh, Mr. Lawrence wasn’t a part of the dojo by that point, and he certainly shouldn’t be judged for his sensei’s mistakes.”

“Be that as it may, rules are rules,” says the Asian guy sitting beside Daniel. Daniel shakes his head.

“Look, if I were to open a dojo, would you guys let my students compete?” Everyone on the board nods. “Well, I trained under one of these guys in ‘85, so according to the policy wording, that makes me just as much a Cobra Kai as Mr. Lawrence.” Johnny tries hard not to snort. Like hell he is. “So with that in mind, I make a motion to edit the ban to only apply to the three individuals named, not every student who had the misfortune of having a bad teacher.”

“Mr. Lawrence, I don’t know you,” the dude beside Daniel says, “but I do know Daniel LaRusso, and if he says it’s fine, I’m with him. Please step outside while we put this matter to a vote.”

“Sure,” Johnny says, and steps into the hallway, trying not to look at the familiar faces in the photographs in the trophy case. 

“Congratulations, Johnny,” Daniel says when he emerges a few minutes later, closing the door behind him.

“Thanks,” Johnny says, and while he’s not exactly surprised, it sure is a relief. Miguel in particular would’ve been disappointed if this hadn’t worked. “You wanna tell me what the hell happened in 1985?”

“Not sober,” Daniel says, and Johnny nods.

“That can be arranged.”

Johnny has to hang around for the better part of an hour because LaRusso refused to bail on the vital decision of mat coloration, but when the meeting is finally over, he drives Daniel to his favorite bar and orders himself a Coors. “Gin martini, ice, ice cold, extra olives,” Daniel says, and Johnny raises an eyebrow at him.

“You look good in the suit and all, but you’re not James Bond, man.”

Instead of rolling his eyes, though, Daniel freezes for a second and then turns to look at him, cocky as ever. “Oh, you think I look good, huh?”

“Shut up and drink,” Johnny grumbles, saved by the bartender setting their drinks down. 

“So what’s the deal with the Cobra Kai shit?” he asks several rounds later. His gaze is lingering on LaRusso too long, he’s sure, but he’s too drunk to give a shit. 

Daniel gives a deep, weary sigh and tells Johnny everything: how this Barnes guy literally made an attempt on his life; how they sabotaged Mr. Miyagi’s business, and with it Daniel’s college fund; how Silver’s teaching turned him into somebody he didn’t recognize, someone aggressive and violent. “Then Barnes beat the shit out of me on the mat,” Daniel says, staring at his own clasped hands. “Scored a point and got a penalty, over and over, until we ended up in sudden death. I still have nightmares about that shit, wishing I could die just so he’d stop hitting me.”

“Fuck,” Johnny says, running a hand down his face. 

“Yeah,” Daniel agrees, downing the rest of his drink.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says, looking at the slumped curve of LaRusso’s shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Johnny clears his throat, feeling way out of his depth. “Do you have, uh. Like, is there somebody you talk to…?” 

Daniel raises an incredulous eyebrow, but he’s the closest to smiling Johnny has seen him since starting down this topic of conversation, so he’ll take it. “Is  _ Johnny Lawrence _ telling me to go to therapy?”

“Chicks dig emotionally mature men,” Johnny says, taking a swig of his Coors and looking away. “Dudes, too, if you swing that way.” Shit. Maybe he’s even drunker than he thought. 

Daniel’s other eyebrow raises, too. “Sounds like the kids have been good for you, man.”

“Yeah,” Johnny admits, smiling at the thought of them. “Miguel says I need to unpack my internal eyes homophobia.”

Daniel snorts. “Internalized?”

Johnny waves a hand at him. “Whatever.”

“You know,” LaRusso says, in full smirk mode now, “in order for a type of oppression to be internalized, the category has to apply to you.”

“Yeah, and which one of  _ your  _ kids taught you that one?” Johnny retorts. Beneath the creepy talking watches and massive phones and whatever other crap, he knows LaRusso is just as old-fashioned as him. Just as stuck in the past, maybe, if he’s putting it less generously. “If you’re waiting for me to come out to you, you’re gonna be here a while,” he adds when Daniel doesn’t say anything, which is the closest thing to coming out he’s said to anyone except Miguel.

“I've got time,” LaRusso says, and Johnny is so relieved to see that familiar shit-eating grin that he just rolls his eyes and orders another round.


	5. Daniel

When Daniel picks Sam up from her new boyfriend’s place, he’s not expecting to see Johnny Lawrence in the living room, sweaty and self-satisfied. It makes Daniel think about sparring in the strip mall, and that’s a dangerous path to go down in public. 

“Oh, hey, LaRusso,” Johnny says, noticing him a beat later, which shouldn’t feel like such a victory, but these days, Daniel will take what he can get. “What’re you doing here?”

“Picking up my kid,” he says, stepping further into the apartment. “What, uh, what about you?”

“Carmen says my apartment isn’t fit for entertaining,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes fondly in the direction of Miguel’s mother, who rolls her eyes right back at him. “But according to the social worker, it  _ is  _ fit for housing a teenager, so take that!” he adds, holding his—is that orange juice?—up in a toast. Daniel blinks, surreptitiously glancing around the room and noticing the third kid on the couch with Miguel and Sam. He doesn’t bear a lot of particular physical resemblance to Johnny—now or at seventeen—but he’s got a certain set to his mouth, a wariness in his eyes that reminds LaRusso of the kid in the parking lot after the All-Valley.

He swallows hard, tries to clear his head. “That’s amazing, Johnny. Congratulations.”

Johnny beams with pride. “He came down to the dojo, said his mom mentioned how I’d offered to let him live with me,” he explains in what he probably thinks is an undertone. Johnny Lawrence has never really had an inside voice. “She apparently fucked off to god knows where, left him without power or rent money.” He sighs. “We’ve been talking a little,” he admits in a voice closer to actually quiet, “me and Shannon. She’s thinking about rehab, maybe. I said she should do it.”

“Robby’s lucky to have you,” Daniel says, and he means it, but it’s also obviously what Johnny needs to hear; the man is radiating nervous energy. He couldn’t look more out of his depth if he tried.

“I had a bunch of money saved up from the dojo, and I had this whole plan where I was gonna pay back my shitty stepdad and prove him wrong for good,” he admits. “But—this was more important. Who gives a shit what he thinks, anyway.”

Daniel nods, taking this in. He files it away, not as potential ammunition like he once would have, but as—something to be gentle about. No matter how much Johnny would hate that.

“So Robby moved in today?” he asks, and Johnny nods.

“Yeah, the kids were helping me get all his stuff up the stairs. Most of the rest of the dojo was here, too, they just left maybe twenty minutes ago.” Daniel’s a little miffed that he wasn’t invited, which he feels ridiculous about, even moreso when Johnny seems to pick up on it. “I’m sure it was nothing personal, LaRusso,” he says, “your kid probably just didn’t want her lame dad hanging around her and Miguel.”

“What, and you’re fine?” he asks, rolling his eyes, but he appreciates the gesture more than he’s willing to let on.

“Hey, I’m a cool dad.”

“No, you’re not,” Robby calls from across the room, and Daniel freezes, worried the joke will hit the wrong kind of nerve, but Johnny just throws his head back and laughs. 

“Fair enough, kid,” he says, shaking his head. He takes a sip of his juice and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Gross, Daniel thinks,  _ this  _ is the guy you—

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought.

“Hey,” Johnny says, “can I ask you a favor?” and Daniel nods without taking even a second to consider. “So, like, Robby’s re-enrolled at school, Carmen helped me do this whole appeal bullshit, but one of their conditions was he needs some sort of ‘constructive outlet.’ New-age pussy shit. He wanted it to be karate,” Johnny’s chest puffs out with pride at this, before he deflates, “but, uh, we’ve been having some… creative differences. And I don’t want it to, like, take a steaming dump all over the rest of our relationship, you know?”

Daniel grimaces, but he gets the point. “So what were you thinking?”

Johnny very visibly reminds himself he’s doing this for his kid and side-steps his pride. If only the guy were this easy to read in high school, Daniel thinks, and then realizes it’s probably not that Johnny’s become some sort of open book. It’s probably more like Daniel’s gotten close enough to be shown some of that shit. 

The thought of Johnny Lawrence letting his guard down around him makes Daniel squirm, so he quickly suppresses it. It pops right back up to sucker-punch him in the face, Whack-A-Mole style, though.

“I was thinking you could teach him.”

Once Daniel’s recovered from the shock—and Johnny sitting there snickering at him is  _ not _ helping, although it puts them back on more familiar footing—he realizes how badly he wants this. If you told him six months ago that he’d be chomping at the bit to teach Johnny fucking Lawrence’s kid karate, he would’ve laughed in your face, but… God, he misses it, with an ache he’s been ignoring for almost a decade. And he thinks… 

Goddamnit, okay: he thinks Mr. Miyagi would approve. 

Which is really all he needs to swallow his misgivings and the petty, wounded part of him that wants to laugh in Johnny’s face, and instead say, “I’d be honored, Johnny.” 

Maybe the craziest part of all is that when Johnny Lawrence beams, it makes something light and hopeful unfold in Daniel’s tired chest. 

They get out of Carmen’s hair after another hour, Miguel’s Ya-Ya insisting on sending everyone home with leftovers even though Johnny says if anything, he should be cooking for them after all their help. The look Carmen gives him confirms all of Daniel’s suspicions of Johnny’s cooking skills, or, more specifically, the major lack thereof. “Maybe your Daniel can make everyone lunch sometime,” Carmen says, and ushers them out the door while Daniel is busy choking on his own spit.

He quickly recovers enough to give Johnny a hard time about it, though. “Your Daniel, huh?” he asks, cutting a glance at him, and Johnny roles his eyes. 

“Couldn’t have anyone else staking their claim.”

Daniel coughs to hide whatever embarrassing spluttering noise he might’ve made at that. “Is this the part where I lecture you about outdated concepts of masculinity?”

Johnny snorts. “Shut up, LaRusso, you think it’s hot.” And, god help him, he does.

Sam’s made the wise decision to hightail it to her car and get the fuck out of there, so when Johnny Lawrence presses him up against the side of his Audi and kisses him breathless, there’s no one around to see Daniel’s smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading & to everyone who’s shown this fic some love! <3


End file.
